


A Very Old and Terrible Lie

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Canon Compliant, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-20
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-29 00:08:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30147714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: After a battle, Rex and Fives complete a ritual.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 9
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2021





	A Very Old and Terrible Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nadiavandyne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nadiavandyne/gifts).



> This is just one unit's way of mourning; I headcanon each unit has a different way to grieve partially influenced by their general and partially by the planets they've been deployed at.
> 
> Title pulled from a quote by Tim O'Brien in his novel _The Things They Carried_.

Rex stared at the box at his feet.

There were too many pips in that box, stuffed so full of them that Rex doubted it would make a noise if he shook it. He didn’t want to open it, didn’t even want to try rearranging them so more would fit, but at the same time there was a terrible feeling of standing on a precipice at even the thought of getting out another.

“I have Kay’s,” Fives said from behind him. His voice was low, as if he was trying to avoid interrupting Rex’s thoughts. “His is the last.”

Rex seized on the distraction gratefully. “Thank you,” he replied, equally quiet. “Fives.”

“Yeah?” Fives lifted an eyebrow. The expression on his face would not seem out of the ordinary to most people, but Rex wasn’t most people. Fives was holding back tears, and he didn’t want Rex to see.

Rex shook his head and turned away, deciding it wasn’t worth it. Letting Fives take what space he needed would be better in the long run, even if Rex himself would prefer not to do this alone.

The door slid closed behind Fives as he left. There had been no sentimentality on Kamino; Rex had acquired his literary influences later, in snatches of moments between Ahsoka’s lessons and the precious few days of leave he had. Nonetheless, the click of the door at his back reminded him of a poem he had read over Ahsoka’s shoulder: _and when the end shall come / the simple click, neither of door nor gun / shall sufficiently pass_. He didn’t think much of the line at the time, but coming back to it in this context gave it a lot more weight.

The noise of a blaster’s trigger falling on an empty charge pack, the finality of the door shutting: Rex didn’t let the shiver down his spine show, but it was there. He knelt on the floor, hands steady but reverent, as he opened the box.

Inside, hundreds of rank pips, all from clone officers, shone up at him, reflecting the light in the room in a thousand different ways. He blinked hard, a combination of the brightness and his grief. Carefully, he set down Kay’s pips on top of the others, and slipped his knife out of his belt.

Rex wasn’t sure who had started this tradition, but all of the 501st knew, and took comfort in, when they died, their number would be carved into the box. It didn’t matter the rank, officer or noncom or line trooper; the names would live on in a memorial. As the ranking clone officer, it fell to Rex to sort through it and organize the memorial. He had already filled one box with names and pips in his tenure as captain, and with Kay’s safely inside, he closed the lid on this box for the last time.

He had no desire to fill a third box.

The tip of his knife bit into the wood. The unsteadiness of his breath belied the surety of his hand as he began carving Kay’s number into the last space.

He barely noticed when the other troopers started to filter into the room. Fives placed a hand on his shoulder, a small comfort that Rex appreciated regardless. Turning as he stood and sheathing the knife, he cleared his throat – a habit more than a necessity; a solemn occasion such as this didn’t offer the same amusement as a pre-mission briefing might.

“Kay,” he said, voice raw, and Fives squeezed his shoulder again.

“Kay,” the assembled troopers echoed.

“Tats,” he continued, tracing over the respective numbers with a finger as he continued the recitation.

“Tats,” came the echo.

“Flick.”

“Flick.”

There was no poetry in this. Rex preferred to keep it out of the Jedi’s sight; he had a hunch that certain generals, like Kenobi, would see it as more art than grief. The names passed from one trooper to the next like a wave, the ripples of the loss mirroring the ebb and flow of emotion.

“Sneak.” He refused to let his voice crack.

“Sneak,” replied the crowd.

Fives took the box from him when Rex found his throat too tight to speak anymore. He had barely finished out the list, and Fives would have to do the rest. The battle had been hard-fought, hard-won, and the names of too many vod’e were committed to the memorial box today. There was no shame in passing it to Fives; Rex had already done his duty as commanding officer with the inscription, and no clone could blame another for losing their nerve in the aftermath.

When he spoke, Fives’ voice was resonant. “No matter what happens in death, we are all still brothers. We remember our brothers, and we carry them with us. They still march with us, and we march with them.”

Ragged cheers rose from the men. The merriment was still hard to find, but Rex leaned into Fives’ shoulder and took the box back. It weighed heavy in his hand, beyond the mere heft of it; not only was it full of rank pips and bars, but it also carried the names and souls of dead clones. The group of clones slowly dispersed, and as they did so, some of the tension of grief left the ship.

Rex tucked the box into the drawer, next to the paperwork he would have to complete later, distilling the battle down to numbers and angles and troop movements instead of breaths and pain and desperation, and silently concluded the ritual in his own way. He let his hand linger on the box before letting go, and if he focused hard enough he might be able to trick his mind into feeling the brush of ghostly fingers over his hand, or a familiar voice in his ear, some acknowledgement that the vod’e knew and appreciated what meager tribute the living could give.

Someday, Rex would join them. But until then, his duty remained: carry the box of names, and march arm in arm with dead brothers.


End file.
